


Care Instructions

by kylostahp (hawkeward)



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Imperial Armitage Hux, Join Me In Being Disappointed By The State Of Krennic's Cape, M/M, Service Kink, Timeline What Timeline, Uniform Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-14
Updated: 2017-01-14
Packaged: 2018-09-17 09:46:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9317297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hawkeward/pseuds/kylostahp
Summary: Armitage Hux, a rising star in the Imperial military, performs an unusual sartorial service for Director Orson Krennic.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Back when the Rogue One costumes were on tour before the movie was out, someone (innocently?) suggested that Hux would be _dying_ to iron Krennic’s disappointingly rumpled cape. I made it weird.

It was a known side effect of the Imperial Academy system that every cadet graduated with the knowledge of how to maintain a presentable uniform.

Armitage Hux was no exception—some might have cited him as a case study of the phenomenon, in fact. His tunic and trousers were always impeccably clean and pressed, the creases razor-sharp and properly placed. His belt was never uncinched, his boots never dull or scuffed, his cap never askew atop his regulation-trimmed hair.

Service staff and droids had handled the Academy’s weekly mass laundering, of course, but each cadet was ultimately responsible for the final appearance of his or her regulation clothing. Pressing, shining, folding, and tucking were done by hand—late at night or in the early morning, depending on the individual—and subject to rigorous evaluation.

Pre-inspection sabotage was not uncommon—Hux himself had once found his dress uniform liberally spattered with filthy cooking oil the evening before his assigned rotation as honor guard at morning ceremonies, and had spent the overnight watch ironing and polishing the rumpled spare he’d thought to stash away. The cadets responsible had not, for one reason or another, lasted to see graduation.

The reasoning behind the duty was transparently simple: caring for a uniform, the symbol of a proud member of the Imperial military, reinforced that the satisfaction of belonging within such an elite group had to be not only earned, but sustained. The uniform was a privilege, not a right—not a common standard of conformity, but a badge of pride and distinguishment to be honored just as the wearer was honored by it. It was a principle Hux lived by.

Director Krennic and his crisp, white cape, for example—a unique, near-legendary garment with which Hux had the privilege of a moderately intimate acquaintance.

It had, as the Imperial military became the career path of choice for young men and women galaxy-wide, become standard practice for promising junior officers to be personally assigned to one of their superiors, gaining both experience and connections in exchange for performing certain menial tasks. Competition for spots of that nature with top command was brutal, and it had taken Hux no small amount of finesse to be placed with Orson Krennic himself, the former genius engineer directing the Tarkin Initiative and thereby the guiding hand on the future of the entire Imperial military. The spent favors and pulled strings were _well_ worth it.

Most of Hux’s peers thought his dedication to Krennic aspirational—that he sought to hook his own star to the director’s, then rise even higher when the time came. It would be an appropriate career trajectory for the technically-inclined son of a career soldier, if a bit obvious. Others had, with varying degrees of crudeness, speculated that it was sexual in nature. Such fascinations with superior officers were far from uncommon within the Imperial ranks, and were regarded with a sort of fond indulgence so long as propriety was preserved—a strong denial would only make them more pernicious, so Hux was inclined to ignore them.

And he could admit, in the privacy of his own mind, that his satisfaction was not purely professional when it came to certain assignments.

In addition to accompanying him to certain meetings for notetaking, running messages and errands, and fetching and organizing files, Krennic’s tasks for Hux included reporting to his quarters two mornings a week, before Hux’s standard duty rotation, to prepare and maintain his uniforms and associated accoutrements. Some officers would consider work that could be done by any standard domestic service droid to be beneath them, but Hux savored those duties. There was a sense of intimacy to them, as if he was granted a privileged glimpse of the peeled-back layers that made up one of the most powerful men in the Empire. The trust implicit in his being allowed to handle Krennic’s uniforms, shine his boots, care for the trappings that would combine into the polished whole—it was as heady as the finest spice, and twice as potent.

He arrived at Krennic’s quarters that morning fresh and alert, with not a thread in his own olive uniform out of place. Every crease was razor-sharp, his cap sat straight over his hair, his boots shone—presenting his own appearance properly was a component of his service to the director, as well as a matter of personal pride.

As usual, he first checked Krennic’s private office—if the director was in when Hux arrived, he would be already at his desk and working, despite the early hour. Hux had never seen the man in even the slightest disarray—not a single rumpled tunic or unshaven jaw, or even so much as an empty cup of caf indicating an overly late night. It was both intimidating and enticing, that complete lack of humanizing vulnerability.

Krennic was not in, that morning. A crisp square of flimsi waited on the polished hardwood desk, however, with Hux’s name and a single word in the director’s bold hand.

_Cape._

Hux’s heart leapt.

Krennic’s cape was made from a fine, lightweight worsted wool, and lined with shimmering aeien silk. It was a spotless bone-white inside and out, impeccably tailored, and likely cost more than a luxury speeder—certainly more than a junior officer was paid in an entire standard year. It was cleaned by the finest sartorial care service available, but Krennic routinely declined to have them remove the lingering wrinkles and return it to military crispness.

 _That_ was Hux’s task.

The freshly-cleaned cape would be hung in the dressing room that opened off the director’s bedchamber, past the large, neatly made-up bed and adjacent to the luxurious ‘fresher. Hux’s nerves were already alight with excitement as he waved a hand over the door’s sensor panel, the illumination panels in the ceiling flickering to life as he entered.

Krennic’s wardrobe was a study in minimalist luxury, the selection small but of exceptional quality in craft and material. The bulk of it was composed of uniforms for various occasions, offset by a handful of severely-cut civilian formalwear in a range of dark, understated colors. Tucked away on the end was a dressing gown in pale gray silk and of a length to fall slightly below the knee, which had figured prominently in Hux’s fevered daydreams for nearly a month after he discovered it.

A panel in the plain wall folded out to reveal the accoutrements necessary for the care of fine clothing—an array of sprays and ointments, tapes and pins, brushes and rollers, as well as the slender, cloth-covered board for hand-ironing and the sonic press itself. Hux hauled the board out to the room’s center, setting its collapsible supports to keep its work surface at a comfortable height.

He paused for a moment to strip off his gloves and remove his cap, laying both neatly aside. Retrieving the handheld press from its charging station, he checked the water level in its steam reservoir, then set it to heating. Surveying the board’s surface, he fetched and laid a fresh, white cloth over it—the board was impeccably clean, but there was no sense in taking chances.

The cape hung on the opposite side of the small room, draped over a hanger hooked to support that protruded from the wall. He lifted it gently, _reverently_ —sweeping the material to gather over one arm so it wouldn’t drag against the floor.

Dopheld Mitaka, a wan, mousy creature barely out of Academy, had once asked him if he had ever dared to try the director’s cape on. Hux’s visceral horror at the suggestion had provoked a nearly physical reaction—the thought was as near to blasphemy as he had ever experienced. He’d given Mitaka the cold shoulder for more than a standard month after the exchange, and the boy had fortunately taken the hint.

He couldn’t suppress the thrill that bubbled low in his gut as he spread the cape’s lining over his work surface. The spike of adrenaline at just _touching_ Krennic’s cape never failed to set every nerve in his body humming, ready to be slowly soothed by the gentle routine of bringing crumpled cloth to perfect, pristine smoothness.

A fine mist of water applied evenly over the sumptuous fabric gently dampened it, then he laid down another clean cloth to both mute the press’s heat and ensure that any contaminants on its surface would not transfer to the silk. He checked the settings on the press, confirming that the heat and sonic agitation levels were acceptable, and set to work.

He moved in an efficient pattern honed by long practice—circling the press to prevent overworking a single spot, progressing in sections as he shifted the voluminous quantity of fabric across the pressboard’s surface. The whisper of the material and the muted hum of the press’s sonic field emitter were the only sounds in the empty apartment as he meticulously smoothed miniscule wrinkles from the cape’s delicate lining and pressed its hem to razor-sharp crispness.

Occasionally, alone in the director’s quarters like this, Hux imagined Krennic’s eyes on him, following his every movement from an armchair or lounge, a cigarra or tumbler of amber liquor hanging from his fingers. The idea of being watched—of the director’s relaxed gaze raking over him while he labored—sent a visceral shiver up his spine and brought heat to his face as he gathered the cape’s smooth lining and spread out the garment’s wool exterior.

It was, he knew full well, unbecoming to the extreme to yearn for that sort of dedicated attention. A proper officer of the Empire did not require praise, performing his duties invisibly and without thought to attracting the eye of his superiors—but oh, how Hux sometimes _wanted_ that eye, however improperly. He wanted to see the approval in the warming of Krennic’s icy gaze and the slight tilt of his mouth, hear it in his gruff dismissal when the work was complete. Even more, he wanted _Krennic_ to see the ardent dedication he applied to his tasks, regardless of their indignity, and for him to know that dedication was not self-serving but genuine.

More than anything, Hux wanted to know that Krennic saw how much he _wanted_ —to serve him, to support him, to be _good_ for him.

He had to stop for a moment to close his eyes, carefully holding the press away from the fabric so as not to scorch it. He was hard, his cock swollen and straining against the seam of his trousers—a shameful, uncontrolled response to his line of thought, thankfully hidden by the fall of his tunic. A glance in the dressing room’s full-length mirror confirmed that a flush had risen in his face, tainting him from throat to ears.

It wasn’t the first time he’d had this reaction. Usually the inconvenient function went away by the time he finished his work, or after a quick trip to the ‘fresher to splash cold water on his face and the insides of his wrists. He breathed slowly through his nose, deep inhales and long exhales, trying to expel both shame and arousal as he emptied his lungs. His erection did not abate, but he was able to refocus on the task at hand, applying the press even more carefully in his compromised state.

The cape’s outer wool surface required steam to relax away its wrinkles—Hux’s touch on the press’s controls released a gurgle water from its reservoir to evaporate against its heated surface in a hissing cloud. He continued to work the cloth in broad sweeps, never staying in one area for too long, but allowing multiple passes of heat and steam to smooth even the smallest, most stubborn creases. The gentle, repetitive motion was less pleasantly meditative now that each small shift of his weight pressed his throbbing cock against the confines of his clothing, but he refused to rush.

Finally—after what usually felt all too quick, but this time seemed an eternity—he was able to set aside the press and carefully drape the cape back over its hanger. It hung perfectly, like poured cream—the lines of its folds straight and elegant, the fabric pristine and smooth. The hem neither curled inward nor spread outward, the collar stood stiff and erect.

Hux barely noticed that his hand had wandered beneath his tunic to cup himself through his trousers until his fingertips pressed against the base of his cock. He caught his lower lip between his teeth, eyes falling halfway closed as he trailed them lower to rub his balls through the layers of his clothing, a moan beginning to form in his chest—

The dressing room’s door hissed open behind him. Hux nearly leapt out of his skin, snatching his hand from under his tunic as if it had been burned and whirling to face the unexpected intruder—and somehow managed to transform the motion into a salute, only barely landing at attention in the face of Director Krennic himself.

“Ah, Hux,” Krennic said, his expression mild. “I was hoping you’d be here. Finished yet?”

Hux swallowed, throat thick with shame as his heart pounded with the adrenaline of almost being caught in a mortifyingly compromising state. “Yes, sir. Just as you arrived.”

“Perfect timing, then.” The director surveyed the cape for a moment, then lifted it from its hanger, sweeping it around his shoulders and adjusting the fall with a practiced hand. He leaned toward the mirror, lifting his chin to check the alignment of the collar and settling the shoulders into place.

Hux waited, itching to tug and adjust, to align seams with Krennic’s angular frame, run hands down folds—or perhaps simply to throw himself on the director’s mercy and bury his face in soft white while he rutted mindlessly against those shiny black boots.

Apparently satisfied, Krennic straightened and moved to leave, waving a hand over the door panel. He turned slightly as it opened, catching Hux’s eye.

“Good work,” he said, and was out the door in a swirl of white.

Hux clapped a hand over his mouth to stifle the high, pathetic sound torn from his core—then he was coming, his entire body flushing hot as his underwear and trousers flooded with his release. He sagged against the wall, legs trembling as his hips twitched and jerked through the aftershocks, throat tight and eyes burning with the intensity of it even as his own cooling come dripped and pooled around his balls.

He’d have to re-launder and press his uniform trousers—possibly his tunic, as well, if the wet, sticky mess soaked through.

Fortunately, he was very good at it.

**Author's Note:**

> Come yell with me on [tumblr](http://kylostahp.tumblr.com/) about how the screen-worn Krennic costume cape doesn’t even appear to have a lining, _what the hell_.


End file.
